Months of Silence
by aspecialkindofhuman
Summary: What happened in those months between the revelation in 221B Baker Street and John and Mary's reunion at Christmas? Short ficlets with headcanons about what happened during that time. Fluffy and angsty. Does contain some spoilers, so don't read if you haven't watched the third season cause you'll be really confused. Enjoy!


Just a short little something I thought up while watching the last episode of Season 3. It's not THAT spoiler-y because i don't actually say what happened so if you don't know it might be okay to read you just might be a wee bit confused. Okay. It's angsty, fluffy whatever. There might be an update (first sex scene quite possibly btw drunk!John and Mary ft. Sherlock) if you guys want it but make sure to tell me or I'm not going to do that. So yeah. As always, tell me what you think. Didn't bother editing cause it's so short, but if there are any major mistakes let me know and I'll go back and fix them. Kay. Enjoy!

**AS ALWAYS: don't own! **

* * *

><p>Moving Day<p>

John was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. Sherlock watched him carefully as the two unloaded the dark cab idling at the curb.

"So," he said after a moment, reaching for the door and holding it open as John shuffled inside 221B Baker Street with a cardboard box in his arms. "How long will it be?"

"I dunno." John's answer was quick. Too quick.

Sherlock blinked at Mrs. Hudson, raising two delicate black brows.

"Nice cuppa," the little woman said, rushing off to make some tea for the two of them.

"You'll be sleeping in your old bedroom, I suppose," Sherlock said as he made it to the first landing.

"Yes, alright." He paused, both hands clenched tightly around the cardboard. "Just give me a moment."

He dropped the box and stepped forward into the main living area of the flat.

Sherlock followed warily, slowly taking off his coat, his scarf, and his gloves. He took his time putting them away, hanging his coat up on the rack by the door, stuffing his gloves in the coat pockets, and tying the scarf around the top of the rack. John stood beside his chair, the familiar red material glowing like a beacon in the darkness of the flat.

"Here, let me . . ." Sherlock trailed off and went to the windows, drawing back the curtain and waving his hand through the air.

It took a moment for the dust to clear and when it did Sherlock turned to find John on the floor, his head folded deep into his palms.

"John!" Sherlock rushed to his side, hooking his arm under his bed friend's shaking shoulder. "John, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm alright." His voice was strained. The words came slowly from a distance, muffled by John's folded palms. "I'm alright, just leave me be."

He sat with his knees folded under him, his head still dipped into his palms. Sherlock watched him for a moment then released him, sitting back on his own heels just in front of his friend. They mimicked the position of the chairs. Even their very clothes drew an odd parallel to the furniture of 22B Baker Street. John wore a warm red shirt beneath a dark blue jacket and Sherlock was wearing a crisp black shirt which crinkled nicely when he folded his arms to rest his chin on his palms.

"Take your time." His deep voice rumbled across the space separating as Sherlock lowered his head, hands folded in a mockery of prayer.

Lifting his head, John caught sight of his best friend's bowed head, of his shaggy dark hair hanging down and his beautiful eyes covered by his pale eyelids. It was almost like he was praying. If John closed his eyes, he could imagine he was.

"Sherlock Holmes," he breathed as Sherlock's eyes blinked open. "Are you praying?"

"No," he said slowly and there was a small tear tracing down his long cheek. "I'm trying very hard not to cry."

Seeing that tear, John broke.

He wept. John Hamish Watson; Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; veteran of Afghanistan, Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart's (bloody) hospital; the army doctor who'd seen more bodies than he could count; the man who'd survived the (fake) loss of his best friend; who'd put himself together after Sherlock died; who'd survived being almost blown to bits by a criminal mastermind; and who'd somehow become the best friend of a psychopath – sorry, high-functioning sociopath – wept.

Like.

A.

Baby.

Sherlock waved Mrs. Hudson away when she came to the door with a tray and two cups of tea. Spying John weeping on the floor, Mrs. Hudson nodded and gently set the tray down just inside the doorway and shut the door without a sound.

Uncomfortable with John's waterworks, and quite unsure of how to handle the situation, Sherlock inched closer to his friend to rest his hand on John's shoulder, patting gently.

"It's okay," he said, but the words sounded false and unsympathetic in his mouth.

"She wasn't supposed to be like that." John's words were broken between his sobs, harsh like the last gasps of a dying man. "She wasn't supposed to be like that."

Minutes passed. 5. 10. 30. 45. An hour.

The pain continued endlessly.

Finally after much internal discussion and minor struggle, Sherlock retracted his hand from John's shoulder in favor of wrapping his arms around him. The touch coursed like a shock through John and the doctor looked up as Sherlock scooted forward, folding his arms fully around his best friend's back.

"It's okay, John," he said into John's ear and somehow, the words didn't sound quite so fake as they had only minutes earlier. "It's going to be okay."

A minute later, John threw his arms around Sherlock with an intensity that frightened the young man. They were like ropes of iron around the back of his neck and shoulders and the way John drew Sherlock into a hug, the fierceness of his affection, was amazing and uncomfortable for the detective. But he didn't try to pull away. Because his best friend was suffering and he needed him.

And for once, Sherlock was the only person there to comfort him.

They hugged on the floor of 221B Baker Street, their arms locked solidly around one another. Sherlock became John's shoulder to cry on – he didn't know people actually did that, but John found it extremely satisfying so he resolved to no longer scoff at people when they asked after similar shoulders to cry on – and the two shared a significant development in their friendship that resonated between the two for years to come.

After it was over, all the sobbing and the angst, John and Sherlock lay side by side on the floor, staring up at the ceiling of 221B Baker Street. Somehow, their positions had been reversed and John lay near Sherlock's chair and Sherlock near John's. It had grown dark in the flat and the tea sat cold and untouched by the doorway. In a moment, Sherlock thought he might get up and call for Mrs. Hudson to make some more if she wasn't already listening in at the doorway, that is. Then he wouldn't have to move at all.

"You musn't tell," John said into the darkness/

"I won't."

"No seriously, Sherlock. If you tell anyone, I might have to kill you."

"Oh, yeah? And how are you going to do that? You're a doctor, remember?"

"And a soldier!"

"Oh, right. Thank you, John. I forgot. Tell me more about your soldier days."

"Sarcasm does not become you, Sherlock."

"It does fine on you."

They laughed.

And the world spun on.


End file.
